One More Miracle
by iolre
Summary: Sherlock was John's salvation, righting a bland world and sending it into vibrant, dizzying hues. Until he vanished, plunging John's world into something he had never expected. Then he came back.


A/N: Tried something new with this. I have no idea if it works or not. This is for the 'Let's Write Sherlock' challenge on Tumblr. It was inspired by 'Clarity' by Zedd. Er. Yeah. Enjoy?

* * *

The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes, he felt the world shift and lock onto some kind of new viewpoint that he had not previously been privy to. Scenes of regular, dull life, monochrome in their design, were suddenly vivid in bright, explosive colours that painted everything for him to see. Everything he did had some new kind of meaning, even something as simple as purchasing groceries.

Later that day he had taken the gun from his back pocket, bright, vivid steel, and shot someone to save Sherlock's life. What had been gray and flat was now intense and overwhelming. Admittedly, sometimes John wondered if the mad berk was more trouble than he was worth, especially when he would come home from a long day at work and find a head in the refrigerator. Then he would take some time away, go for a walk, and feel the monochrome tug at the corner of his vision, leaving the world rimmed in black and white.

He would return to 221B Baker Street, to the mad genius playing Brahms on the couch, and life would be in technicolour once more. A hundred chases, two hundred, hurtling down yet another street as they chased a serial killer, bright, evening hues decorating the stones they ran by, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows in their wake. Quiet nights, numerous in number, warm, rich red and gold tones painting a homey picture in the living room of their flat. Sharp greens and teal in the kitchen, the reflective surface of the kitchen lending a contrasting, vivid gray against the stark colours of Sherlock's various experiments.

One night, after a particularly difficult chase, things shifted, the world's axis tilting to a new angle, rotating in a previously unexplored direction. Sherlock looked at him, looked through him, saw everything, his emotions bared, and walked over. He tilted John's head back with a finger, eyes warm and soft, the lightest shade of blue-gray, of clouds and free sky. Leaning down, there was the slightest press of lips against his, warm and gentle, tender and loving, and the world exploded.

Vermilion and ochre, umber and stark neon, splashed against the black canvas of his closed eyes. His hands slid to Sherlock's waist, clutched the pale white of his button-down shirt, the silk soft against rough, tan fingers. John's lips parted as he inhaled sharply, and the touch of Sherlock's tongue against the curve of his upper lip sparked fireworks. John's breath hitched in his throat, fingers spasming uselessly in the slick fabric as he fought the myriad emotions welling up in him..

Then Sherlock pulled back, the slightest hint of a smile curving his cupid's bow lips, a glint in his eyes that made John's heart pound. The taller man turned and walked away, leaving John behind, blinking stupidly, his world tilting wildly on its previously stable axis. Unconsciously his fingers went to his lips, sparks of blue flickering in his vision at the moisture underneath the whorls of his fingertips.

It was not talked about, neither man choosing to broach the subject. Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened, and John played along. Despite his best efforts, he could feel the colour fading from his world. What had been once garish and cringe-inducing in its vividity was now mild at best, the edges sepia tinged with gray, his vision muted and blurry, unreliable.

Although John would not say he hated Sherlock, he certainly despised the man's effect on him. Even a simple caress would ignite a flare of colours, rainbow in their variation and nearly as dizzying in their intensity. Sometimes even the way Sherlock would look at him would set him off, leaving him immobile from the spinning in his head. Crippling headaches would follow, every soft movement or noise causing explosions in his head.

Without Sherlock, his world had attempted to resume its previous orbit, leaving behind a path of pure devastation. He limped about, his cane a staple in his hand, and fought to steady himself in a trajectory that no longer felt familiar. Sherlock was around, of course, but on the barest edges of his senses. His presence heralded a push in a different direction, ignited a longing that John had never felt in his lifetime. It was then that John Watson realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

This realization, however, came too late, for merely three days later, Sherlock disappeared altogether. John watched, the vague, sepia tones moulding with the dark, static monochrome to paint a truly horrifying picture as he saw the one person he had ever - loved was not a strong enough word, but it would have to do - jump off of a building, the wool coat forming black wings in his descent.

He did not remember what happened afterwards, did not remember seeing the vivid red against the muted gray pavement. The next time John Watson opened his eyes, the world was muted shades of gray, bland and dull in their insipid uselessness. Life was back to the way it was before Sherlock Holmes, before the colour had came into his life. He went through the motions, eating and drinking like everyone else. Sometimes he even remembered who he was. The rest of the time he drifted through life, unaware and uncaring of what any and everything meant.

Part of him remembered the glances, the eyes the most vivid of the brief, fragmented memories. After a few days, not even the clearest memory of the stormy pale eyes could bring colour back into John's existence. It was startlingly easy, slipping back into the dull routine he had managed before. He even had a girlfriend, a nice, normal girl named Mary. John forgot her last name.

One day, John was out of the flat, out of the pathetic, grotty establishment he had settled for after - someone - Mrs Hudson? He no longer remembered - had evicted him from 221B for nonpayment. He picked up a box from the shelf of the market he was in, looked at it, and put it back. How could people - normal people - distinguish one useless gray box from another? Mrs. Hudson still came by, sometimes, and fussed at him until he ate. He ate when out with Mary, smiled blandly and listened to her chatter about her day. Otherwise John could not be bothered. There was no reason, no rhyme to anything anymore. The world had gone completely gray. She disappeared like the others. All it took was time.

Until he looked up and saw someone standing there, someone who had no right to be there, and his world was thrown into colour once again. The transition was brutal and far too fast, colours exploding like small bombs in his head, leaving him on his knees in the middle of the suddenly too-bright store, gasping and trying to control himself. A cool hand on his chin, and his gaze was lifted to meet pale eyes, apologetic and warm and there and John threw himself forward and just held him, held the tall, slim figure that he had never thought he would see again.

Warm arms wrapped around him, cradling him, and John didn't care that they were making a scene in the middle of the store, didn't care that others were probably staring, judging. All he knew was that his colour was back, flutters of his eyelashes producing bursts of creams and grays and yellows, reds and oranges and pinks in turn. The shift of Sherlock's coat as he moved to hold John closer set off darker colours, grays that made him nervous, blacks that were soothing in their darkness.

They stood, breaking apart, and John's cerulean eyes blinked owlishly at the man in front of him. Sherlock led him, hand tucked firmly underneath his elbow. The touch set off vibrant bursts of warmth and colour, dotting his sight with pale greens and bright purple, flickering in his peripheral vision as he seemed to heat from within. "Sherlock," he whispered, the words tumbling unbidden from his tongue. A gentle kiss, a soft touch; comfort in its purest form.

Next time he opened his eyes, braving the now-vibrant world, his surroundings made any words he might have said stutter and die in his throat. They were back in 221B, and it was like time had stopped, like nothing had ever changed, like Sherlock had never left. His world was falling into place, jagged pieces finding their solutions, and he felt righted again for the first time in far too long. Fingers clutched at Sherlock's clothes, demanding stability, an explanation.

He got one, murmured into his ear as Sherlock held him while he tried not to fall apart. Another soft press of lips, reminiscent of their first kiss so long ago. "You're back," John said haltingly, his voice hesitant, exploring the new reality.

"Yes," came Sherlock's ragged reply, warm and tender. It was then that John realized that Sherlock was struggling as badly as he, trying not to fall apart, holding onto what kept him bound together. "John." So much said in so little, so much emotion blossoming between them, coming as sharp, brilliant colours that erupted as something broken became something new.

Long, pale fingers on his face, cupping his cheeks, holding him steady as a second, firmer kiss was pressed to his lips. John blinked his surprise, his acceptance, a smile sculpting the barest edges of his lips as he soothed the fingers that were so vital in bringing his world into focus. "Sherlock," John got out, trying to portray everything he wanted in one word. There was so much he wanted to say, _I love you, I need you, please don't ever leave me_, but all was left unsaid, passing between them like the electric connection. The words were small bursts of colour at the edges of his vision, soft, muted reds as he spoke, not the red of blood, but the fiery crimson of passion, of undying feelings and something that would last forever.

They sat together for a long time, cherishing the return to something both had felt they had lost forever. Sherlock had been John's undoing, but he had also been his salvation. That clarity, the righting of John's mind, undid much of the damage Sherlock had caused with his disappearance. With his reasoning, John could not fault him. All he had wanted was to have him back, and he did. He pressed a gentle kiss to the perfectly pink lips. It was all he had asked for. One more miracle.

And here it was.


End file.
